Recently, I spent time with a close friend helping her sort through a space that had once been filled with creativity, sound, and the quiet focus of someone deep in their work. It was her husband’s workspace, a sheomra tucked into the garden, where he had composed music, experimented with sound, and worked tirelessly on his craft. It’s been three years since he died, and now the space stood still, holding the presence of his work and his absence all at once.
As we opened drawers and lifted lids, it became clear this wasn’t just about “stuff.” There were cables, so many cables, all coiled, knotted, looped together. To someone else they might just look like boxes of redundant items, a mess of black wires and chargers that had outlived their usefulness. But to her, and soon to me, they were part of a story. Each one had a reason to be there. He had collected them not out of habit or disorganisation, but out of care. Some for gigs abroad, others for specific keyboards, and some for backup in countries where outlets and voltage were different. These small details spoke of his thoughtfulness, his readiness, and his dedication to his art.
We didn’t rush through it. We sat with the cables, the keyboards, the manuscripts show casing his talent. Sometimes we were quiet, sometimes she told me stories about the different projects he was involved in, the work he had produced and the impact one person had on the world. There was huge sadness for the creativity we knew he would have been capable of in the future. There was so much love in the remembering.
What struck me most was how important it is to make space for those details. In grief, the world often feels impatient. We are quick to move on, to tidy up, to get back to “normal.” But when someone we love has gone, their belongings become a kind of language. They’re silent, yes, but full of meaning. And when we take the time to notice, to handle them with gentleness, to listen to the stories they hold, we honour more than just memory. We honour the person.
Decluttering is never just about clearing space. It’s about bearing witness. It’s about sitting beside someone who’s navigating the ache of absence, and not rushing them past the parts that still matter. Sometimes the kindest thing we can do is to pause, to let the tears come, to laugh when a memory surprises us, and to say, “Tell me about this,” even if it’s just a plug or a tangle of leads.
It was a privilege to help my friend. I was reminded, again, that kindness isn’t always in the grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet patience of a moment, and in the willingness to see not just what’s there, but what it meant.
It turns out, even in a box of tangled cables, there’s a bit of poetry and maybe a reminder that love, like wires, can be messy, connected, and sometimes impossible to unravel.
Kindred Sorting 